The flowers are much older
by sarahmith
Summary: When the attacks first start to happen they ignore them. But when Dean's illness forces them to settle down, their life deteriorates. It has been five years but the flowers are much older.
**Hello everyone,**

 **I hope you enjoy reading this story. Please leave a comment if you like it. It will be appreciated.**

 **Thank you and enjoy :)**

* * *

The first time it happens Dean and Sam are on a regular salt and burn.

Sam is holding the enraged spirit at gunpoint while Dean is supposed to dig up the grave and burn the motherfucker. But the spirit attacks a lot fiercer than Sam expected him to and he fears that he cannot hold him off much longer.

"Dean man, hurry would you?"

He receives no answer, no witty comeback. So he fires a round of rock salt at the spirit and uses the minute that gives him to check on his brother. Dean is standing in the grave, his confused gaze lingering on the shovel.

"Dean, what's going on?"

Sam is somewhat bewildered by Dean's behavior. He doesn't know what is happening. Maybe it's the spirit. But Dean just looks up to him slowly, then his eyes widen almost comically and he throws the shovel away, scrambles out of the grave and runs away faster than Sam can yell his name.

He needs some time to readjust to the hunt and gank the spirit on his own but he manages. After that he hurries to the car where, against all hope, he finds Dean. His brother is sitting in the passenger seat, head in his hands.

"Dean, what was that? What was going on back there?"

"I… I don't know man. I just, I just remember standing in this grave and I didn't know why I was there or what we were doing. And then I saw that ghost and… I just don't know, man."

They are both scared but they make up excuses, putting the blame on the spirit, and hit the road again.

After all the patented Winchester way of coping with unwanted things is to never talk about them again.

* * *

The second time is even worse.

Sam wakes up in the middle of the night because he is forcefully shoved out of the bed he shares with Dean. It had been a good evening, too. They had drunk some and played some. And then they had made love which happened very rarely. They were more of the rough types in bed but sometimes they liked it slow and sensual. Sometimes they liked to put meaning into every touch and into every kiss and this had been one of those nights. Dean had even agreed to cuddle afterwards. And that was really a rare treat.

But now Sam is lying on the cold hard ground, confused and half asleep.

"What the hell, Sam? What are you doing in my bed?"

"Are you trying to be funny? Because it's the middle of the night and it's not the fucking time."

Sam is somewhat angry that his brother has chosen this moment to reinforce his manliness or whatever he liked to call it.

"Do I look like I am joking? Why is there only one bed in this fucking room? And why the hell where you cuddling up to me?"

Dean sounds really freaked out now and Sam suddenly comes to. He remembers that night on the graveyard nearly a month ago and a kind of dread befalls him. It is happening again. Dean can't remember their relationship. Which means he can't remember the last four years.

"I, sorry. The couch was too hard and I thought you didn't mind. They only had this one room left. I'll go back to the couch."

"You do that."

Dean falls asleep again almost immediately but Sam never does. The nightmares haunt him just as well.

In the morning Dean is confused as to why Sam preferred the couch to their shared and comfortable bed. Sam makes up some excuse about being too warm that Dean accepts but not without making fun of him for the rest of the day.

Sam just likes to forget that night.

* * *

It doesn't happen again for nearly two months and Sam almost forgets it.

But then one night he wakes to startling noises in the Bunker. Dean isn't in bed anymore and someone is clearly sneaking around outside. Sam goes to investigate and is tackled in the kitchen by his brother.

"Dean, what the hell?"

"Whoa, easy tiger."

"You scared the crap out of me!"

"That's 'cause you're out of practice."

Sam get's a feeling that they had this conversation before. Many years ago. And the dread comes again.

"Dean? What is going on?"

"Nice apartment you got here. Didn't know a student at Stanford could afford something like this."

"Dean?"

"Anway, I'm here cause Dad is on a hunting trip and he hasn't been home in a few days."

Sam just sits there on the ground, shocked into silence. He remembers now, clear as day.

"Dean that happened over eight years ago. If this is your idea of an elaborate joke then it's not funny anymore."

"What do you mean, eight years ago? It's been only four years since you went to Stanford. I surely don't look that old."

Dean gives his usual smirk and Sam wants to cry. Then he spends half of the night playing along, discussing the when's and why's of their Dad's disappearance and formulating plans to get him back before Dean becomes himself again.

It takes another two hours for Sam to get it across to Dean that yes, something is happening to him and that yes, seeing a Doctor is not up to discussion anymore.

* * *

Alzheimer's disease.

The word hits Sam like a hammer to the chest and Dean isn't better of. At first they don't talk about it. Dean wants to ignore it forever but he can't. The intervals between the moments where he forgets pieces of himself are getting shorter. It happens three more times during a hunt before Sam puts an end to it. Dean argues only halfheartedly because hunting is the one thing that makes him who he is but at the same time he knows that hunting in this state will only get him or his brother killed. And he can't stand to think about the last possibility.

So they settle down in the bunker. Sam takes on a job in the local library while Dean works as a mechanic. The old man who owns the place is a very understanding guy, luckily. But when Dean forgets what he is doing in the garage the third time in one week and doesn't show up for the other two days he has to fire him.

Sam quits too. He kind of has to because he can't let Dean stay at home all by himself and trusting a stranger to care of his brother is just not an option. It wears him down though. His hair becomes thinner, just like him. There are dark shadows under his eyes most of the time now and he spends half his nights nursing the strongest bottle of alcohol he could lay his hands on.

When Dean is himself there is worry in his eyes. And guilt. He is the reason why Sammy looks like crap and there is nothing he can do about it. When Dean forgets, he laughs. Says that Sam looks like a walking corpse and that he should get some sleep, maybe get laid. He never sees the flinch in his brother's face because he doesn't know that he is the one that Sam is supposed to get laid by.

They still have sex when Dean is Dean. But it's not the same anymore. For one Dean is afraid that he will hurt his brother who looks so fragile now. So he takes it slow, almost hesitant. Sam on the other hand is like a desperate animal trapped in a corner. He wants to make every second count, never knows when it will be the last time. He is frantic and rough and demanding. He cries every time.

* * *

It had been a good day so far. Dean had been himself for two days now. The longest in the last month. Sam had somehow felt himself relax, had given into this treachery feeling of hope. Today had been especially fun. They had laughed, cuddled in front of the TV and gone out for a walk. They had teased each other and kissed, a lot, and it was almost like before. So when Sam walked into the kitchen to check in on Dean who had wanted to cook dinner, the last thing he had expected was to be attacked by a knife.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house?" Dean demanded.

The long kitchen knife was directed at Sam's chest but Dean's hands were shaking and the hold was all wrong. Surprisingly that was the what terrified Sam most in that very moment. Not the knife, not the Alzheimer's attack in itself. It was the fact that Dean had forgotten how to hold a knife. It had been deep-rooted into him, drilled in by their father. And now he had forgotten that and apparently who Sam was as well.

By the time Sam had convinced Dean of the fact that he was a friend and not a burglar and had him tucked away safely in bed, he was a crumbling mess. As soon as the door to his own room closed behind him he broke down crying. He couldn't take it anymore. Not like that. He could live with his brother forgetting about their relationship, could live with Dean thinking Sam was still at Stanford. He could take it all as long as Dean still knew they were brothers. But this was too much. It would have hurt less, Sam was sure, if the kitchen knife had just pierced through his heart. It was the first night that Sam drank himself into true and pure oblivion.

* * *

"And be careful with the flowers. I know they aren't all that fresh anymore. But my brother will come today and he will replace them. Sammy will come, I know it. He promised."

The nurse looks at the dried roses and sighs.

"Of course Mr. Winchester. You know I won't touch them."

The man flashes her a satisfied grin and turns his attention back to the window he is sitting at. He wears his Sunday best and she can see the anticipation in the way he is holding himself. She knows how it goes. He will sit there, sometimes the whole day and sometimes just five minutes. He will reprimand everyone not to touch his flowers. He will wait for his brother patiently. Then he will forget that his brother even exists for the next 5 months or so. The circle repeats itself. In the 5 years she has been working at the nursery home she has never once seen the mysterious brother. The flowers are much older.

* * *

Somewhere in Nevada there is an anonymous grave. A man is buried there who was known by no one. He had been bitter and withdrawn. He had been a hunter. They had found him one morning, torn to pieces, on the side of the road.

Somewhere in Nevada there is an anonymous grave. A man is buried there who wanted to forget. He had been broken and lonely. He had been a lover. On his last hunt ever he had died because for just a second he had thought the man whom he loved would have his back.

Somewhere in Nevada there is an anonymous grave. A man is buried there who is sorely missed by one who waits. He had made a promise and a vow. He had been a brother. The last thought on his mind, right before he died, was that now he would never be able to replace those flowers.


End file.
